


Recognition

by fanoftheimagines



Series: Prodigal Son Fics [4]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Finding a Body, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Historian!Reader, Murder, Night Terrors, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trichotillomania, Trichster!Reader, abuse mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:15:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24024952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanoftheimagines/pseuds/fanoftheimagines
Summary: You met Malcolm when your roommate was murdered by a serial killer while you were researching in Washington D.C. Afterwards you kept in contact and become really close. Too close to be just friends.On Hold.
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Reader
Series: Prodigal Son Fics [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1674196
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	Recognition

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Trichotillomania, murder, finding a body, abuse mention, PTSD, night terrors, anxiety, fear of relationship (sorta)  
> Pre-1x01  
> A/N: This is really long and I’m honestly not sorry. This is the first installment of a series that will follow the show. I’m really writing this for me, so I’ll be using my own experiences.  
> A/N: A “Trichster” is someone with Trichotillomania. Trichotillomania is compulsive hair-pulling disorder.

It had been a pretty normal day. Work was nothing too exciting, although you did find some pretty cool documents for your research. But other than that, nothing exciting. And you were pretty tired. Looking over dozens and dozens of archival documents could be downright exhausting. So all you wanted to do was lay down on your couch and binge watch something off Netflix or something.

Sighing, you fiddled with your keys as you approached your apartment door. You quickly unlocked it, opened the door, and threw your keys on the little stand there. Then, you looked up. And screamed.

Your roommate was on the floor of the living room. She was face-down on her stomach, her back caked with crimson blood. The cream rug was smeared red. It was splattered on the ceiling and the beige walls. The wooden coffee table was broken and bloody and your couch was covered in blood as well.

You stood frozen for a second, your hands over your mouth. Eventually, your shaky hands fumbled around in your pockets for your cell phone. The second you had it, you were dialing 911.

10 minutes later, your apartment was a crime scene. An hour later, the FBI arrived.

* * *

You were sitting in your bedroom. Tears were silently cascading down your cheeks. Your head was down, so your hand could reach the hair there. A small pile grew on your shoulder. You couldn’t stop yourself even if you wanted to. This was all too stressful. A cop stood by the door. All you knew was that you were waiting. The detectives had long since stopped asking you questions and now all you could do was wait. 

“Excuse me? Y/N?” A man’s voice spoke.

You jerked your head up, pulled your hand away from your head, and brushed away the hair. The man in question was FBI. Everything about him screamed it. He didn’t dress like a detective and he didn’t hold himself like one either. He was handsome, extremely so, so much so you almost stopped crying altogether. And his eyes… just wow.

You hastily wiped the remaining tears away. “Yes?”

“I’m Agent Bright. I just have a few questions.” He said. His voice was sweet and reminded you of honey. “If that’s okay?”

You nodded and gestured to the spot next to you. He smiled slightly at you and took a seat.

“What can you tell me about Amelia?”

You took a deep breath before answering. Your hand ached to pull, but you suppressed the urge. “She is… was my roommate. Uh… She worked at the front desk at a law firm, I think. I’m not sure…”

“Were you not close?” His voice was comforting. It soothed your racing thoughts.

You shook your head. “No, we weren’t friends. In fact, we didn’t actually talk that much.” You looked over to him and sighed. “We didn’t get on well. Not to speak ill of the dead or anything, but…” You dropped off, your hands beginning to shake from everything.

Agent Bright noticed. He gently held your hand and squeezed. “Anything you can tell me will be helpful, I promise.” He was far kinder and gentler than the detectives who’d questioned you previously.

You nodded and looked at your joined hands. You decided then and there that you quite liked the way his hand felt in yours. “It’s just… well, she could be quite rude sometimes. She wasn’t really considerate of others. It caused problems between me and her. And there was that whole thing with her ex.”

Bright seemed to perk up at that. “What do you know about her ex?”

You sighed and focused on the pressure of his hand. “He was… well, he was abusive. She didn’t really want me to know, but I could tell. I tried to help her out of it, but she wouldn’t do anything. Then one day, she came home with a big bruise on her face. She said they’d broke up. That he’d been cheating.”

“Had he?”

You let out a dry chuckle. “I don’t know. She sure thought so. She said he would leave in the middle of the night or always be busy with friends. It doesn’t necessarily sound like cheating, but…” You shrugged. What would you know? It’s not like you’d been in a relationship long enough to get cheated on.

“Do you remember his name?”

You tried to wrack your brain. You never were great with names – faces, sure, but never names. You shook your head. “No.” Agent Bright looked frustrated with that answer. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

“You’ve been a big help. Thank you, Y/N.” Agent Bright said, squeezing your hand. “Can I ask you one more thing?” You nodded. “Which one of you has Trichotillomania?”

You froze. You looked down at your lap. Deep breath. “I do.” Shame rose in your chest and you shoved it down forcefully.

“Okay.” He said, not an ounce of shame or anger or any of the other emotions people normally had toward it in his voice. It was a breath of fresh air. “We’ll need a DNA sample to rule you out.”

“Of course.”

He smiled at you. Not one of those fake smiles everyone else had been giving you, a genuine smile that was filled with reassurance. That everything would get better. He squeezed your hand again and hesitated just before he was going to pull away. “I…” He started, “If you need anything, give me a call.” He pulled a card out and placed it gently in your palm.

“Thank you, Agent Bright.”

“Malcolm. Call me Malcolm.”

A large smile graced your cheeks for the first time. “Thank you, Malcolm.”

* * *

You were staying in a hotel because your apartment was a crime scene. It had been a few days since Amelia’s death and a day since the FBI caught the killer. Nightmares, which you rarely had, prevented you from sleeping. You just kept seeing Amelia’s dead body. So, you’d taken to busying yourself during the day. When you got back to the hotel, you collapsed on your bed. Tension melted from your muscles. A knock jolted you from your stupor.

With a groan, you sat up and looked through the peep-hole. Agent Bright – Malcolm – stood outside the door, his hand shaking at his side. You opened the door quickly. Excitement filled your belly.

“Agent Bright? It’s nice to see you again.” You smiled at him and opened the door wider to let him in. “Can I help you with something?”

“I just wanted to see how you were doing.” He said. He walked over to the bed and gestured to the seat next to him, just like you had earlier in the week. His words were a change of pace for sure. Since Amelia’s murder, everyone’s been asking you how you were, but no one ever meant it. Malcolm meant it. His eyes were sympathetic and understanding. You could trust him.

You sat next to him and fiddled with your fingers. “Honestly? Not great. I haven’t been getting much sleep lately and I’ve just been trying to keep my mind off it.” You paused and took a breath. “Every time I close my eyes I see her.” You whispered, looking down.

His hand found yours. “I’m not going to tell you that it will be okay. But it will get better. What you’re feeling right now, someday you’ll be able to live with it and it won’t hurt so bad.”

You could tell he spoke from experience, but you didn’t comment on it. “I don’t know how to get there.”

A contemplative look crossed his features while he thought. “I could help you, if you’d like?”

A small smile grew on your lips. “I’d like that.”

* * *

It had been almost a month since Amelia’s death. Nightmares still plagued you, but they were better than they had been. You mostly attributed that to Malcolm. Apparently, he never got much sleep anyway – he never told you why – so he told you to call or text him if you ever needed to talk about it. You became close pretty quickly because of it. Malcolm was probably the nicest person you’d ever met. And you were determined to be just as nice to him. So, you told him that whatever was keeping him up at night, if he ever needed to talk about it, you were there.

Your late-night talks were something you eventually came to look forward to. They always seemed to brighten up your day. Malcolm was easy to talk to, easy to tell things to. You’d told him things you never really told anyone. And in turn, he’d told you things he hadn’t told many people either.

Like the past few days, Malcolm was the one to call you tonight.

You were just about to settle into bed when he called. You smiled and tried to push the giddiness down. “Hey, Malcolm.”

“Hey, Y/N. How are you?” He responded. He sounded exhausted.

“I’m better. Shaved my head today. How are you? You sound tired.” You had a sneaking suspicion that Malcolm didn’t take very good care of himself. It was worrisome, but you didn’t have much evidence to support it.

“I’m fine, don’t worry about it.” He spoke too quickly to ease your concerns.

“ _Malcolm_.” You said sternly. “How are you really?”

He sighed. “I’m just… tired, is all.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” He didn’t answer right away. “Malcolm?”

“Can you come over?” He sounded like he desperately needed a hug.

“Text me your address. I’ll be over soon, okay?”

* * *

His apartment wasn’t too far away from your new apartment, as it turned out. You tugged your jacket around your pajama-clad chest and knocked on his front door. He opened the door quickly. He looked as exhausted as he sounded, like he hadn’t slept in a week. Nevertheless, he smiled at you and guided you into his living room.

It was when he sat next to you on the couch that you noticed his hand shaking like a leaf. You reached out and put a hand on his thigh. “Malcolm, talk to me. What’s wrong?”

“Promise you won’t leave.” He mumbled.

“Why would I leave? You’re my friend and something is clearly bothering you.”

“I don’t want you to hate me.” His voice cracked and he wouldn’t meet your eyes.

You grabbed his hand and squeezed in reassurance. “I promise I won’t leave and I won’t hate you.” You paused. “Please tell me.”

“My… my real name is Malcolm Whitly. My father is Martin Whitly.” The name immediately struck a chord. Martin Whitly. As in the Surgeon. As in New York City’s most notorious serial killer. “Y/N?” Malcolm asked when you didn’t respond right away.

“Well,” You started, “I wasn’t expecting that… Is that why you can’t sleep?”

He nodded. “You’re not upset?”

“Why would I be upset, Malcolm? We can’t choose who our parents are, only who we are.” You squeezed his hand. “You’re not a serial killer, are you?”

Malcolm looked up at you horrified. “No!”

You smiled and nudged his shoulder. “Then I have nothing to be upset about.”

The two of you remained quiet for a few moments. It gave you a moment to gather your thoughts. Like you told Malcolm, it wasn’t a big deal that his father was a serial killer. It just wasn’t what you were expecting he wanted to tell you when he invited you over. You could only imagine the kind of trauma he must have gone through as a kid. And what kind of problems that caused.

“Malcolm?” You asked, breaking the silence. He hummed. “Why can’t you sleep?”

He pulled his hand away. “I have night terrors. About my childhood.”

“You should have told me sooner. Here you’ve been, helping me with my issues, when I could’ve been helping you with yours.” You quickly caught yourself. “Not that I’m ungrateful for your help or anything, because I am. It’s just I wish I could’ve helped you too.”

Malcolm smiled sadly. “I appreciate the sentiment, but there’s really nothing you can do to help.”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean you have to go through it alone.”

“Thank you.” He whispered. “Can you stay tonight?”

“Of course.” You said without hesitation.

Malcolm got you a blanket and pillow for the couch. Once he was ready for bed, he led you to his bedroom. His bedroom was dark and very Malcolm. His bed was in the middle of the far wall. There was an anchored backboard with straps coming from it. You raised your eyebrow but said nothing. _I guess he has to control his night terrors somehow_.

He lay down and moved to put on the first cuff.

“Allow me.” You said, sitting next to him. You grabbed the cuff and held it up for him to slip his hand in. Then, you secured the straps against his wrist. The sudden urge to kiss his knuckles almost overwhelming. “Good?” You asked, suppressing the urge. He nodded. So, you moved around the bed to do the other one. “I’ll be here if you need me, okay?”

“Thank you, Y/N.” He whispered, already kinda drowsy.

You smiled. He was adorable like this. The urge to kiss him overwhelmed you again. Perhaps you should be more concerned, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. “Of course. What are friends for?” With that, you patted his leg and left to get settled yourself.

* * *

A panicked scream woke you. For a few seconds, you couldn’t remember where you were. Then, another scream echoed through the dark apartment. A scream that sounded distinctively like Malcolm. You were up on your feet in an instance. You didn’t have to look at the clock to know it was an ungodly hour, but that didn’t matter. It also didn’t matter that your brain was sluggish with sleep. The only thing that mattered was Malcolm.

He was thrashing on the bed. His legs were tangled in the sheet. He groaned and shouted through his mouthguard. This was obviously a night terror.

Right. You were prepared for this. Before you’d gone to sleep, you did a bit of light googling on how to help people with night terrors. And as much as you hated to do it, you had to wait it out. You gently sat on the bed and began to soothingly run your fingers through his hair. You started to hum a lullaby your grandmother used to sing to you. Then, you waited.

Eventually, he settled down, not even waking up. Once you were sure he was okay, you gave him one last glance before going back to the couch. Sleep didn’t overcome you right away and you allowed your mind to wander. And of course, it went to Malcolm.

Just the thought of him made your stomach flutter. Malcolm was like no one else you’d ever met. He was sweet and funny and incredibly smart. It was incredible how vulnerable you could be around him without even trying. You had a feeling that it was a mutual thing, considering what he’d told you earlier. Sometimes, when you and him were alone, you wanted nothing more than to hold his hand or kiss him. It could be incredibly distracting. Not to mention took all of your will-power to ignore. _Holy shit, I think I like him. More than a friend._ The sudden thought was jarring, but not unwelcome.

* * *

You had been friends with Malcolm for almost a year now. Your crush on him had only gotten worse. Try as you might to hide it, you were almost positive he knew. He was the FBI’s best profiler after all.

Most nights you talked until one of you fell asleep, even on nights when Malcolm was out of town on a case. On nights when he was in town and had a really bad night, you would go to his house and stay with him during his night terrors. You had gotten a lot better at comforting him, but it still hurt to see him like that.

It was one of the rare afternoons were Malcolm was home. He had invited you over for dinner. During the course of knowing Malcolm, you had come to realize that he never really ate much, and when he did, he could only eat certain things as to not upset his stomach. This led to a lot of homemade dinners at one of your apartments.

When you arrived, Malcolm seemed off. Like he was anxious about something.

“Are you alright?” You asked, unable to ignore it. He shrugged and waved you off, walking into the kitchen. No, you were not having that. “Malcolm, please tell me what’s wrong.”

He held the countertop. “Nothing’s wrong. I promise.”

“Well,” You said, walking over to him. “you can tell me anything any time.” Sure, you were frustrated, but you understood that pushing someone wasn’t the best solution.

He smiled at you. “Now!” He clapped. “Dinner!”

Dinner was nice. It always was with Malcolm. He’d made a light chicken dish, which was of course delicious. He told you what he could about his last case. You told him about the progress you’d made in your research. You ate and laughed and enjoyed yourselves. It was lovely to see him smile so much. And his laugh was a positively gorgeous sound.

When dinner was finished, you sat on the couch drinking together. Malcolm was sitting on the opposite side of the couch from you. A comfortable silence hung between you.

“Can I ask you something?” Malcolm asked suddenly.

You nodded. “Of course, what’s up?”

“I… Um…Would…” He stumbled then took a deep breath. His hand was shaking. “Would you like to go out with me? On a date?”

You took in a sharp breath. Anxiety filled your chest. As much as you’d love to, you didn’t want to risk your friendship. It was by far the best thing in your life at the moment and you didn’t want to lose that. “I… I don’t think that’s a good idea, Malcolm.”

His hand was shaking a lot. His eyes shot down. “I’m sorry, of course. I’m a mess. Of course.” He mumbled. You immediately were ashamed. Here you go, ruining the one good thing in your life.

“No, no, no, no. It’s not you. It could never be you.” You lifted his chin. “It’s me, Mal. I’m the problem.”

He had tears in his eyes and he looked on the verge of crying. “What are you talking about?” He whispered.

“I have Trichotillomania. None of my relationships have gone well because of it. I don’t want to ruin this.” You whispered. Your heart broke at the confession. You’d never told anyone that before. “Everyone I’ve been with has ended up hating me because of it.” You paused and looked down at your hands. “I don’t want that to happen with you.”

You didn’t notice the tears streaming down your face until Malcolm lifted your chin and wiped them away. “I would never do that.” He said, his piercing blue eyes gazing into yours.

“I’m just scared.”

“That’s okay. I am too. But I’m willing to try if you are.” He paused and brushed his thumb over your cheek. “Besides, I’ve got way more problems than you. If either of us should be worried, it’s me.” He joked, nudging your shoulder.

You chuckled and gave a small smile. “I’m willing to try.” You said, grabbing his other hand.

Even though you were still scared that this was going to end badly, like every other time, you allowed yourself to fall into Malcolm’s reassurances and hope. Maybe this time would be different.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted on [my Tumblr account](https://fanoftheimagines.tumblr.com/).  
> [Series Masterlist](https://fanoftheimagines.tumblr.com/post/617056584736047104/a-trichy-situation-series-masterlist) on Tumblr.  
> [Click here](https://fanoftheimagines.tumblr.com/post/641870052684185600/if-you-enjoy-my-writing-and-want-to-support-what-i) to find out how to support me.


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